From “If-Then” to “Even-If”

But when Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God, … [Hebrews 10:12].

From our earliest days, we learn how the world works: if you clean your room, then you get your allowance. If you study hard, then you’ll make good grades. If you put in the extra hours at work, then you’ll earn that promotion. It’s how we teach our children, how we navigate our careers, how we build our relationships. This “if-then” thinking is woven so deeply into the fabric of our lives that we often barely notice it.

It makes perfect sense. It’s orderly. It’s usually fair. It rewards effort and punishes laziness. It gives us a sense of control, a feeling that we can predict and manage the outcomes of our lives. Even in our casual conversations, we reinforce this pattern: “If you want to lose weight, then you need to exercise more.” “If you want to save money, then you need to spend less.” The formula is simple, reliable, and deeply satisfying to our sense of justice.

It’s no wonder, then, that we often bring this same transactional thinking into our relationship with God. We may not say it out loud, but we often operate on an unspoken bargain: if we live righteously, then God will bless us. If we pray regularly, then God will answer. If we serve faithfully, then God will protect us and those we love. It feels natural, even right, to approach God this way. After all, isn’t this how everything else in life works?

This “if-then” pattern was so fundamental to ancient religious life that it became embedded in the very structure of Temple worship. In the Epistle lesson assigned for this upcoming Sunday, Hebrews 10:11-14 [15-18], 19-25 [the Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year B], the writer of Hebrews points this out:

Every priest stands day after day at his service, offering again and again the same sacrifices that can never take away sins [Hebrews 10:11].

It’s a striking image—priests perpetually on their feet, performing the same rituals over and over. If one offers the right sacrifice, then God will forgive. If one performs the proper ritual, then the people will be made clean. If we all follow the prescribed patterns, then we’ll maintain our relationship with God.

We’re accustomed to the need for repetition. The coffee I bought this morning won’t satisfy tomorrow’s craving. The sandwich I ate for lunch won’t keep me full for a week. But the Temple sacrifices were supposed to address something deeper than daily wants and needs. They were supposed to address the fundamental breach between humanity and God. Only, they never quite seemed to get there. Like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it, no matter how many sacrifices were offered, something was always still missing.

This endless cycle of sacrifice—this perpetual spiritual transaction—was meant to be broken. And broken it is. The writer of Hebrews tells us that Christ “offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins” (10:12). What does this really mean for us? Sometimes we glimpse this truth in unexpected moments, even in our attempts to make worship more “efficient.”

Those who are familiar with Methodist traditions in the South understand that some things are sacred, including how one serves Communion and where one eats Sunday lunch. At Asbury United Methodist Church, where I once served as a part-time associate pastor, those two sacred matters sometimes came into conflict. Concerning Communion, the traditional Methodist practice of coming forward in groups to kneel at the altar rail, receive the elements, and await a blessing before returning to the pews, while deeply meaningful, could also be problematic, particularly for Asbury’s aging congregation. More than one member had noted that the length of the service was affecting their position in line at the K & W Sunday buffet.

When several church members approached our Senior Pastor about making Communion more “efficient,” it seemed like a reasonable request. Having seen Duke Chapel serve a thousand people with remarkable efficiency through intinction, I suggested we try that method. It appeared to be a simple solution to a practical problem.

A few days after our first “efficient” Communion service, one of our elderly members asked to speak with me. He was a man I deeply respected, and I expected to hear appreciation for our streamlined approach. Instead, he shared something that caught me completely off guard.

“I was a teenager during the Depression,” he began, “and things got so bad here in Durham that my family had to go to the bread line. I swore if I ever got out of that Depression, I’d never stand around, line up, and shuffle forward to receive anything to eat again.” He paused, his dignity evident in every word. “And I ain’t goin’ to start now.”

The gentleman at Asbury had already spoken with the Senior Pastor before coming to see me. We returned to our traditional Communion practice soon thereafter. His words stayed with me, however, eventually revealing a truth far deeper than questions of church efficiency.

You see, my elderly friend was right about Communion being a bread line, though not in the way he feared. The bread line of his youth represented a human reality he wanted to leave behind—a place where dignity was surrendered to necessity. But the bread line of Communion represents a divine reality that we all must face: none of us can earn or deserve what is being served at the Lord’s Table. We come forward not because we are worthy, but because we are invited—not because we have earned it, but because Christ has paid for it, once, for all time.

This is where the writer of Hebrews reveals something extraordinary about our approach to God. Under the old system—the “if-then” covenant—approaching God was always contingent on our worthiness. Like my elderly friend’s resistance to the bread line, we may resist grace because it challenges our notion of earning our way. Often, we’d rather stand on our own feet, demonstrating our independence, than acknowledge our need.

But note what the sacred text tells us:

Therefore, my friends, since we have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus … let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith” (10:19, 22).

This isn’t the tentative approach of someone wondering if they’ve earned the right to be there. It’s not the anxious calculation of whether we’ve been good enough this week. It’s confidence—not in our worthiness, but rather in Christ’s completed work.

The shift from “if-then” to “even if” transforms everything. Even if we stumble, the way remains open. Even if we fall short, the invitation stands. Even if we feel unworthy—especially if we feel unworthy—we can approach with confidence. Not because we’ve managed to earn it, but because Christ has accomplished what all those repeated sacrifices could never achieve.

Perhaps this is why those ancient priests had to remain standing, offering the same sacrifices over and over. They were caught in an endless cycle of trying to maintain worthiness. But Christ, having offered his single sacrifice, “sat down at the right hand of God” (10:12). The work was complete. The transaction was finished. But what emerged wasn’t a new transaction; it was a transformation.

Those ancient priests, faithfully performing their sacred duties day after day, reveal something profound about our human condition. Even when we’re following God’s own instructions, we can find ourselves caught in patterns of earning and deserving. This runs so deep in our nature that even grace can make us uncomfortable. Like my elderly friend at Asbury, we sometimes resist the very thing we most need because receiving it freely feels like we’re surrendering our dignity.

Yet the writer of Hebrews invites us to see something different. Christ’s single sacrifice doesn’t just make our approach to God more efficient—it makes it possible in a way that all those repeated sacrifices never could. The bread line of grace may challenge our pride, but it offers something our self-sufficiency never can: a relationship with God based not on our worthiness but on Christ’s completed work.

Dignity isn’t found in never needing, but rather in being honest about our need. True confidence isn’t found within a relationship that we earn, but through embracing what Christ has already accomplished. True grace is found precisely where we least expect it—in the line with all the other hungry souls, reaching out our empty hands to receive what none of us could ever afford.